


These Peculiar Times

by killabeez



Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/F, F/M, French Revolution, Georgian Period, Historical, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Quasi War, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 19:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17168009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: The year is 1798, and Britain has been at war with France for five years. When Duncan fails to arrive in America on schedule, Connor travels to London to look for him. There, he gains help from old friends and a mysterious stranger.





	These Peculiar Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esjay (La_Strega)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Strega/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Dread Pyrate Methos](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096) by [Taz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz). 



> _4 December 1797_
> 
> _My dearest cousin Connor,_
> 
> _Your letters reached me yesterday, upon my arrival in Town on a raw, cold and windy day and amid alarming circumstances. In every Coffeehouse, I heard talk of misgiving, for it seems Europe shall have no appearance of Peace, but on the contrary the French reject every Proposition to it. So inveterate are they against England, that they are determined to make a Descent on her shores. The banks are, as I’m sure you’ve heard, in a gloomy state of crisis. Taxes have been raised trebly on nearly every Item Pitt can name, and it seems economic uncertainty and the possibility of Invasion weigh upon men of all station. I am fortunate to have some cash in hand, but needless to say, your invitation to join you in America could not come at a better time._
> 
> _It is my intent to reach New York this June, by whatever means I can secure. Fear not, for I also received your letter of 29 October and will arrange to have your list fulfilled at the Bookseller in Piccadilly, along with the latest Tracts._
> 
> _I am due at Rebecca’s this afternoon, and must first make my way to St. James to purchase gifts for the Ladies or Amanda will have my head for certain, so this letter shall be followed by a longer one in a day or two, in which I shall relate for your entertainment certain Events that transpired at the de Valicourt’s chateau before I departed from France. As Fitzcairn was involved, I‘m certain they shall catch your particular humor._
> 
> _Dear Connor, it’s been too long. I’ve missed your company, and look forward to what adventures we may discover together soon._
> 
> _Your Devoted Kinsman,_
> 
> _Duncan_

* * *

Connor MacLeod angled his hat against the fine, freezing rain, scanning the row of houses for the number that matched Duncan’s address. He’d arrived in London that afternoon, ahead of what promised to be a hard frost and a heavy snowfall, if the sky could be trusted. The impressive new street lamps were already alight, making the city glitter even in the gathering gloom, but having been at sea for weeks in winter conditions, he was in little mood to appreciate the festive mien.

At last, he found Duncan’s address and approached the door, but no sense of Immortal presence arose.

He rang the bell. After a minute, a maid-servant answered. But, “I’m sorry, Sir,” she answered when he asked after Duncan. “He no longer lives here.”

“I see,” Connor said. “Can you tell me when the new tenants arrived?”

The woman, though not at liberty to give information about the current residents, told him that she’d been employed there since April. “Perhaps you might speak with the landlord?” she suggested.

“Aye, thank you, I will.” Connor tipped his hat to her.

Evening had come on and the rain had changed to snow, a powder that would soon start to stick—when Connor arrived at the office of Duncan's solicitor, but unsurprisingly, the man had already gone home for the night. He would have to call again in the morning.

By the time Connor arrived at Rebecca’s elegant residence, he half-expected to find yet further disappointment, but this time, he was in luck. He’d waited but a moment when the door opened, and had barely time to give his card to the maid before the lady herself appeared at the top of the stairs. “Well, this is a surprise!” Rebecca hurried down, a smile lighting her face. “You are a welcome sight. And an unexpected one.” She was as elegant and strikingly beautiful as usual, dressed for some festivity or other, and Connor felt instantly grimier and more bedraggled, his hat beginning to drip on the marble. She kissed him on both cheeks anyway. “What shall I call you?” she asked, polite as ever.

“It’s Adrian Montague these days. And you?”

“Elizabeth, again.” She smiled. “I always thought the name suited. But my servants are discreet, and know better than to ask questions. Rebecca is fine.”

“My sincere apologies for disturbing you. I can see you’ve plans for the evening. I’ll borrow only a few moments of your time, and then I’ll be on my way.”

She tsked, and took his arm, drawing him deeper into the house. “You’ll do no such thing. Come inside, and you can join us for supper. Have you made arrangements for lodgings?”

“Not yet,” he admitted.

“Then you’ll stay here, won’t you? Amanda won’t be home for a couple of days, at least. It’ll be quiet until then.”

“So, who’s joining us for dinner?” he asked, as she led him up the stairs.

“Just an old friend.” At his dubious expression, she laughed. “Trust me. You’ll like him.”

“How can you be sure I don’t already know him?”

“Unlikely. He’s a bookworm, and a physician, and wants nothing more than a quiet life these days. But we can talk about that later, after you’ve had a brandy and a warm fire to take the chill off.”

As good as her word, she brought him to a well-appointed guest room in which the fireplace was already crackling, and rang for a servant to bring brandy and glasses. “So, what brings you to London?” she asked when they were settled comfortably.

“In search of my wayward cousin, I’m afraid.”

Rebecca’s brow furrowed in concern. “Duncan? But I thought he was with you.”

“He never arrived,” Connor said. “He was due this summer, but when I heard nothing, I grew concerned. It’s not like him to make arrangements and then disappear without a word.”

“No, I would think not,” Rebecca agreed.

“So, he did sail for America, then?”

“Yes, in the spring. At least, he planned to, last I knew.”

“Do you know the name of the ship, by chance, or the date?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I was in the country by then. Perhaps Amanda knows—we’ll ask her when she arrives.” She gave Connor a close look. “What is it? There’s something else.”

He drew a deep breath. “I began having nightmares a few months ago. Violent lightning. Fire against a dark sky. Not every night, but often enough.” He wouldn’t have told that part to most, but Rebecca was a touch fey herself, and old enough not to laugh at him for believing in the idea that one could sometimes see things with more than one's senses and reason.

Indeed, she looked genuinely troubled by this news. “That is concerning.” She rose, and paced a few steps away. “I wish I knew more. But you’ll stay with me for the duration, and we’ll get to the bottom of this together.”

Connor couldn’t deny that he was grateful for her help. “Thank you. You’ve eased my mind.”

She laid a hand gently on his shoulder. “For tonight, rest. Make yourself at home. I’ll call for a bath, and when you’re presentable, come and join us. My home is yours, for as long as you need it.”

* * *

Methos looked up with curiosity as the newcomer entered the parlor. Tak Ne’s last student had taken his time making a name for himself, but in the past century had encountered a few notables. Less flamboyant than the younger MacLeod, he had a particular reputation for making friends rather than fighting, which Methos appreciated. When it came to fighting, however, he was reputedly no coward. Kastagir had spoken kindly of him, and Rebecca seemed inordinately fond.

MacLeod, or Montague, as he was calling himself now, cut a handsome figure, but not an imposing one. Indeed, he bore the kind of presence that one could easily underestimate—until one noted the intensity of his gaze.

“Ah, there you are!” Rebecca said. “Are you somewhat renewed?”

“Undoubtedly,” MacLeod said. “Thank you again for your hospitality.” He kissed Rebecca’s hand, then turned to Methos, blue-green eyes appraising. He gave a slight bow. “Adrian Montague,” he said, “at your service.”

Methos couldn’t help recognizing a fellow sardonic soul. This was a man who appreciated the gifts of Immortality, but didn’t take them for granted. “Benjamin Adams,” he said, returning the bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He poured MacLeod a glass of claret. “Sorry to hear about your missing friend,” he offered. Their fingers brushed as he handed MacLeod the glass. The flicker of reaction in MacLeod’s eyes was subtle, but unmistakable. Methos’s interest sharpened. “If I can be of assistance,” he offered, voice lowering a fraction, “It would be my pleasure.”

MacLeod’s knowing expression said he understood that Methos’s offer encompassed an array of possibilities. “You’ll be the first to know,” he said.

Eyes alight with amusement, Rebecca ushered them in to dinner, one on each arm. To MacLeod, she said, “See? What did I tell you.”

* * *

Over dinner, Connor learned that the good Doctor Adams professed to be neither a Tory nor a Whig, and that while he had many opinions regarding the Revolution, the War, the Irish rebellion, and the current state of the world (not to mention nearly all other topics), he would not concede to one position or another on almost any subject. He reminded Connor of Ramirez in that way; everything was an object lesson, and none to be taken seriously. Connor began to suspect that Adams, while obviously comfortable in modern society, was an Old One—or at least, older than he seemed.

Rebecca retired early, but urged the two of them to share port and a smoke in the study. Connor wasn't much for tobacco, though Duncan had developed a taste for it, and he was glad to find Adams was of similar mind. The port was excellent. They talked of Adams’s interest in medicine, and his desire to go to America once the current tensions resolved themselves.

“Have you spent much time in the west?” Connor asked, a question that trod close to the line of propriety where two newly-acquainted Immortals were concerned.

“Never been,” Adams said. At Connor’s look, he shrugged. “I like civilization, I must confess.” Mildly, he added, “And harbor little fondness for the institution of slavery.”

Connor gave him a keen look. There was more to that statement than Adams revealed in his tone. “England claims no virtue in that regard,” he said.

“No, she doesn’t,” Adams agreed.

Connor chuckled, recognizing when he was being baited. “You should come visit,” he offered. “See for yourself.” He was thinking how entertaining it would be to watch Adams bait Duncan, while he sat back and laid wagers with himself on the eventual outcome.

“Very generous of you,” Adams said, his expression amused. “I might.” He grew serious, then, his bright eyes concerned. “You’ve come a long way under dangerous conditions. Your friend must be a man of great worth.”

“He’s dear to me,” Connor admitted.

“Your student?” Adams asked.

“Aye,” Connor said. “You’ve met him?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure. But Rebecca and Amanda have told me stories. Such staunch loyalty betwixt our kind is rare,” Adams said, in a rare moment of genuine feeling. “I admire your devotion.”

“He’s not dead,” Connor said. “I would know if he was.”

“Of course.” Then, “I’m no Puritan,” Adams allowed. “And I make no judgment. If I can help, I will.”

* * *

The next afternoon, Methos met the Highlander at Methos's favorite coffee house in the Strand. MacLeod sought him out where he sat ensconced in the window with his paper; as he made his way toward Methos, a young Captain and Lieutenant, recently outfitted from head to toe in the latest Army fashion, caused a stir parading up and down the room in their military finery. The Irish uprising that summer and stories of Nelson’s exploits in Egypt had fired the English fervor for war, despite the threat of new taxes and shortages.

“You look like a man bearing news,” Methos said when MacLeod joined him. “What have you learned?” MacLeod had been to see his kinsman’s solicitor.

“My cousin left London at the end of March, intending to book passage on a merchant ship bound for the West Indies. The _Etingdon,_ she was called, out of Liverpool. She never arrived.”

“Foundered? Or captured?” Methos wasn’t sure which would be worse. For an Immortal, being lost at sea was almost as terrifying a prospect as it would be for a mortal. Though odds were that they would survive, it might take months or even years before they found their way to civilization. On the other hand, the French had gone mad for their guillotine.

“Unknown,” said MacLeod. “She disappeared with all hands.”

Across the coffee room, the onlookers cheered as the young Lieutenant brandished his new broadsword.

“Perhaps we should leave them to their spectacle,” Methos suggested.

Clouds hung heavy in the sky, and the previous night’s snow provided something of a challenge navigating the streets. The two men picked their way carefully toward home. “So, what now?” Methos asked.

“I’ll go to France.” MacLeod shrugged. “If he went down with the ship, all I can do is wait, and hope for the best. But if he’s been captured, I’ll find him.”

“You do know there’s a war on.”

MacLeod gave a soft laugh. “I noticed.”

* * *

“He's as stubborn as you are,” Rebecca reminded Connor when they returned. “He's survived worse.”

She was right, and he knew that, but it didn’t stop his imagination from reminding him of all the ways in which an Immortal could die at sea before the winds and currents were kind. The thought of Duncan in a French prison raised his hackles. Worse was the image of his friend Pierre Bouchet, dead by the guillotine only a few short years before.

Connor had few contacts in London. But when Rebecca learned what he planned, she spent the afternoon writing letters; she would find him passage to Lisbon as soon as the weather allowed. Unfortunately, that might not be for days, or even weeks. By midafternoon, the light was already waning, and it began to snow again.

“You’ll spend Christmas with us,” she urged. “The weather must turn eventually, and we’ll find you a ship, but until then, let us distract you.”

Reluctantly, Connor agreed.

* * *

Much later that evening, when MacLeod had gone to bed, Methos escorted Rebecca up the stairs. She turned to him on the landing.

“You like him,” she said, her look knowing.

Chagrined, he said, “Does it show?”

“Mateo, my old friend, you have never been good at hiding your feelings. Not from me.”

“He’s…challenging,” Methos admitted. “Not what I expected.” After a moment, he added, “He could use a friend.”

A smile played about her lips. “Are you asking my permission?”

“And if I were?”

“You haven’t hurt my feelings, if that’s what you mean. You should know better than that.”

He smiled, feeling the tug of melancholy at last, and drew the back of his hand lightly against her cheek. “We always were good together.”

“We still are. But you know as well as I do, nothing lasts forever.”

He nodded. To lighten the mood, he teased, “Tell the truth. You want Amanda all to yourself.”

“If I did, could you blame me?”

“Of course not.” He took her hand with a show of gallantry and kissed it. “One last time, for friendship’s sake?” he asked.

She linked her arm in his and led him up the stairs.

* * *

On the following day, with Rebecca’s help, Connor secured passage on a ship bound for Portugal. It was scheduled to sail from Bristol on the third of January.

The next afternoon, Amanda arrived in a rush of servants, trunks, and fur-trimmed silk. “I don’t believe it!” she exclaimed when she saw him. “I haven’t seen you in ages. What was it? Italy, 1635?” They’d only met twice, and Connor had made little secret of his distrust, but for Rebecca’s sake, he would be polite. He took her hand and kissed it.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Haven’t we all.” She kissed Adams on both cheeks with the familiarity of old friends, then looked around hopefully. “I don’t suppose Duncan’s with you?”

Connor said, “Afraid not. That’s why I’m here.”

Adams helped her with her coat, and Rebecca gave her the whole story while they gathered to sit around the fireplace.

“I can’t believe you lost him,” Amanda said when she had heard the tale.

“Technically, he lost himself,” Adams pointed out.

“That’s beside the point.” She gave Connor an assessing look. “I hope you know what you’re doing. They’re still cutting people’s heads off over there.”

“Trust me, I'm well aware.” He'd fought with the Revolutionaries himself, and would have lost his own head to _La demi-lune_ , had Pierre not taken his place.

Rebecca deftly changed the subject, asking Amanda about her recent travels. Talk turned to the hard frost that had fallen over the city, then to the recent announcements regarding an impending income tax (“Can you imagine!” Amanda exclaimed), and eventually to the seemingly endless war.

Christmas morning dawned gray and cold, but Rebecca’s house was merry, the rooms decked with holly and evergreens and bright with candles. The night before, the Yule log had been lit. At Rebecca’s insistence, the four of them bundled up and rode along the muddy, frozen streets to Westminster, as unlikely a foursome as Connor guessed had ever attended Holy Communion at that venerable church. He lit a candle for Heather, and another for his mother. Adams, too, lit one, and Connor wondered about it, but said nothing. Even Amanda was quiet on the drive home.

After they’d had their Christmas dinner of roast goose and plum pudding, and the women had retired together to their own rooms, Adams presented him with a bottle of brandy. “Seventeen eighty-three,” Connor read, turning it in his hand.

“I thought you’d appreciate that,” Adams said. “Being a man of the people, and all.”

Connor chuckled. In 1783, Britain had recognized America’s independence. “I can't help it,” he said. “It’s in my blood.”

Adams’s smile lit his changeable eyes with mischief. “We all have our challenges.”

Connor’s sleep that night was troubled, and he knew too well the reason why.

* * *

On St. Stephen’s Day, a storm took London by surprise, burying the city in a thick blanket of snow and ice. It didn’t bode well for Connor's departure, and indeed, when the streets were passable again and he sent word to the captain, he was told that provisioning had been delayed and the day of sailing pushed back at least a week.

“Don’t look so glum,” Amanda chided him gently over breakfast. “You’ll be on your way before you know it, and when you find him, chances are he’s been hiding away with some countess the whole time.”

“That does sound like him,” Connor admitted. He was beginning to realize what Duncan and Rebecca saw in her, beyond the obvious. She could be kind when she wanted to.

She smiled. “Of course it does. And in the meantime, come to the ball with us. It’s the last one of the year, and the best one of the season. Everyone will be there—even a few old friends. You might even meet someone.”

Despite himself, Connor couldn't resist the way Adams’s gaze caught his.

“Ben’s going,” Amanda said. “Right, Ben?”

“You know me,” said Adams. “Nothing I like better than a party.”

“We’d love you to come,” Rebecca added, and in the end, Connor gave in.

* * *

“You could have warned me,” Connor complained, when he realized one of the “old friends” Amanda had mentioned was none other than Hugh Fitzcairn.

“Yes, but then you might have stayed at home,” Amanda answered. Fitzcairn bounced on tiptoes and waved enthusiastically from across the throng.

“We’d better go and say hello,” Rebecca said, “before he harms himself.”

The ball was an admittedly festive affair, with London’s best society dressed in their finest, and all seemingly determined to put a brave face on the uncertain state of their nation and its prospects for the new year. Their hosts had spared no expense, decking the dancing rooms with bunting, greenery, and a dazzling glitter of lights. Though most of England was currently under threat of food shortages, one certainly wouldn’t know it from the vast array of delectables that beckoned from every available surface.

Connor quickly lost sight of the women in the crowd, and Adams a few minutes later, when the good doctor encountered a pair of matrons who wanted to introduce him to some young lady or other, and who would not take no for an answer. Soon a glass was pressed into Connor’s hand, and then another. He caught sight of Terence Coventry, whom Rebecca had told him was newly married to a duchess. He wondered if Burns might turn up as well.

Avoiding the dancing, he moved where the crowd took him. Curious looks followed wherever he went, particularly from some of the eligible young women and their chaperones, but he avoided those, too. Lubricated by a steady flow of wine, brandy, and other refreshments, eventually he relaxed and began to enjoy the anonymity as more and more guests arrived.

At midnight, the crowd joined together to sing in the new year, while outside, fireworks lit the night.

> _For auld lang syne, my jo,_  
>  _For auld lang syne,_  
>  _We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,_  
>  _For auld lang syne,_
> 
> _And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp!_  
>  _And surely I'll be mine!_  
>  _And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,_  
>  _For auld lang syne._

As the night wore on past the turning of the year, the ball gave no sign of winding down. During the worst of the crush, he stepped out of the smoke and heat and came upon Fitzcairn on the terrace. Earlier, he’d overheard talk of the man’s failed fortunes in Jamaica—his sugar plantation had been wiped out by a hurricane in 1780, and a run of bad luck had left him in debt yet again—but Fitzcairn’s perpetual good humor seemed undimmed. He greeted Connor with a hearty, if drunken, hello and threw an arm around him. Connor, for his part pleasantly drunk on illegal champagne and feeling tolerant, didn’t immediately knock Fitzcairn over the stair railing into the bushes. “Now this is what I call a party,” said Fitzcairn over the din.

“Heh. Too bad you won’t remember it tomorrow.”

“A man can dream.” His eye caught on a pretty brunette as she passed by inside, unconcerned that she was already accompanied by a man in uniform.

“You like to live dangerously,” Connor told him. “Shall I ask her husband if he wants to share?”

“Oh, come now, there’s no harm in looking, is there?” He patted Connor amiably. “Speaking of marriage, we missed you at Gina and Robert's wedding, dear boy.”

“Eh, they’ll have another one in ninety-eight years.”

Fitzcairn laughed, and reached out to capture two more glasses from a passing servant. Managing to spill only a little, he handed one to Connor and raised his in a toast. “To eighteen hundred and ninety-six; may we all live to see it.”

Coventry, who had approached in time to hear the last part, raised his own glass. “To 1896,” he echoed. The three saluted one another and drank.

Coventry spotted something over the railing. “Oh, my.” He’d seen Amanda and Rebecca coming up the steps from the direction of the orangery, arm-in-arm, looking suspiciously disheveled. As they approached, he said, sotto voce, “The two of you are likely to cause a scandal.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Amanda airily. “Will you protect a lady’s honor?” She took Coventry’s arm. Fitz followed suit and hurried to take Rebecca’s. Rebecca looked to Connor, unwilling to desert him, but he demurred.

When the others had gone back inside, Connor descended the way the women had come, finding himself in the garden. Moonlight lit the path. The frosty, clear night was a welcome tonic for the close air of the party, and his head cleared a bit as he took a meandering route toward the front of the house.

As he rounded the corner at last, he sensed an Immortal, but he felt no surprise; it was as if that presence had been calling him along. And there, leaning against a marble post at the foot of the steps, stood Benjamin Adams.

* * *

Methos watched as MacLeod approached. The Highlander cut a slim, fashionable figure in his dark coat and pale waistcoat. His bronze-gold hair had curled with the heat inside, and it became him. Thank God, no one under the age of fifty was wearing powdered wigs anymore; whatever harm the Revolution had wrought, at least there was that.

"What are you doing here?" MacLeod asked as he approached. His accent had thickened.

"Waiting for you," Methos said without artifice. "I saw you leave the ball room and came out through the front."

"Brave man."

He wasn’t wrong—the crush in the front hall had been stifling.

“Had enough for one night?" Methos asked.

MacLeod nodded. "You?"

"God, yes.” Methos tilted his head, giving MacLeod a meaningful look. "Shall we?" he asked. He deliberately left it open-ended, and MacLeod smiled for an answer.

As if materializing by magic, a footman presented Methos’s carriage as it pulled up beside them—an impressive feat, between the icy cobblestones and the huge number of them vying for position. Methos grinned.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you," MacLeod said.

"Let us hope you'll have more before the night is out," Methos replied.

They climbed in, and the coachman set off, careful on the slippery pavement.

Methos at once drew the curtains, leaning close to MacLeod as he did. It was not his intention to waste time or opportunity, and apparently MacLeod was of like mind; he reached out and snagged Methos’s wrist, pulling him down with the motion of the rig. His lips were warm and full, and he tasted of oranges.

Methos went to his knees between the other man’s legs, pressing their bodies close. He could feel the heat from MacLeod’s even through their clothing. "I was starting to wonder whether you knew what game we were playing.”

He couldn’t make out MacLeod’s face, but he heard the suppressed laugher in his voice when he said, “Question is, what are you going to do about it?”

* * *

By the time they arrived home, Adams had the advantage of him, and Connor had intimate knowledge of what that wicked mouth felt like. In the pitch darkness of the swaying carriage, he had been undone in a matter of minutes, and the combination of the cold, the other man’s skill, and his own eagerness had brought on his climax like a firestorm.

Determined not to surrender the field so easily, he dragged Adams from the carriage and up the stairs to his room. Blessedly, a vigorous fire had been lit in anticipation of their return, and the two men wasted no time divesting themselves of clothing. Connor measured himself front to front against Adams’s lean form, marveling at the silken texture of his skin. Unbidden, he thought of Duncan. Adams bore no resemblance save perhaps being of a height, but Connor had been too long among Puritans, and had not known the company of a man nor woman in recent memory.

“How do you want to do this?” Connor asked, teasing at the other man’s prick with his own. Adams was ready, his sex at attention and beginning to pearl with fluid already. Connor, knowing they had hours yet until morning, intended to return the kind favor Adams had granted him as directly as possible, before delving into more leisurely explorations.

By way of answer, Adams sank to the bed and pulled Connor down atop him. “Show me what you like,” he urged. “I won’t say no.”

He was as inventive and generous a bed-partner as any Connor had known, and it was many hours before they finally exhausted themselves. Connor, enervated by his body’s exertions and unable to manage another rally, at last dropped to the bed beside the other man. Adams’s hand found his thigh, but Connor begged, “I beseech you, have mercy.”

“As you wish.” Adams breathed out, a deep sigh of satisfaction. “Are you sure you have to leave?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Connor countered. “I could use someone to watch my back.”

Adams’s low chuckle reached his ears. “To France? Not on your life.” It hadn’t been much of a hope; Adams had made it clear that he wasn’t in the business of risking his neck unnecessarily. “It’s not personal,” Adams added.

“All right,” Connor said. “I had to ask.” The fire had burned to embers, and the gray light of morning teased at the sash. The first day of the New Year had begun.

* * *

_A week later_

“Connor! You’re back!” Amanda, so eager that she’d forgotten his current alias, hurried across the courtyard to greet him. She held a letter in her hand, and her face shone with excitement.

The weather had turned for the better at last, and Connor had just come from arranging transport to Bristol for two days hence. He dismounted, and a servant took his horse; Amanda nearly threw herself into his arms, waving the letter. “You won’t believe it!”

Mystified, Connor snatched the letter from her grasp. He recognized the dreadful handwriting at once.

“It’s from Duncan,” he said, stating the obvious. His eyes scanned for the date, and when he found it, breathed, “He’s alive.”

Amanda nodded. “Yes! And on his way.”

Connor read the letter, then read it again. Duncan’s merchantman had been seized by a French privateer, and her crew and passengers loaded onto a prison ship where they’d been held for five months. Duncan had, with the help of the ship’s coxswain, engineered an escape with a handful of their companions. They’d managed to travel down the Loire river to the coastal city of Nantes without being caught. Once there, they’d stolen a boat, gotten onto a Royal Navy cutter, and escaped to the Channel Fleet. He’d sent the letter ahead on a packet ship, and expected to arrive within the week.

Connor laughed quietly. “Only you,” he said. He’d accused his kinsman of modeling himself after le Comte d’Artagnan, such was his frequent acquaintance with danger and daring escapes.

Feeling a thrum of Presence and the sense of being watched, he looked up to see Benjamin Adams at the library window. Amanda followed his gaze. “Well,” she said as if to herself. “This should be interesting.”

* * *

Connor looked for Adams at dinner, hoping for the opportunity to share the good news even if it meant facing the mercilessly sharp edge of the man’s teasing. And when had that happened? It had been a long time since he’d felt this particular, pleasant hum of anticipation. He and Adams had spent three more nights together since the night of the ball, and he found himself eager for more. But now, with Duncan arriving soon, the landscape within their immediate company would inevitably change. Perhaps it would be best, he thought, if he planned to make lodging arrangements elsewhere.

But Adams didn’t make an appearance, and when Connor asked Rebecca where he was, she said he’d gone to Oxford in search of some texts he needed for his research. “Didn’t he tell you?” she asked, her fine brows drawing downward. “That’s not like him.”

When he did return, his affection and ardor for Connor seemed undimmed, but Connor sensed that something had changed.

“Tell me the truth,” he said later that night, when they lay together indulging in a lazy, sensual exploration by the firelight. “Do you regret our acquaintance?”

“Not in the least,” said Adams. He drew intricate whorls with his fingertips amidst the fair curls of down on Connor’s thighs. “For one thing, I don’t believe in it.”

Connor gave a short laugh. “What, regret?”

“Exactly,” Adams said, to all appearances serious. “I am, however, relieved that odds are I won’t be attending your funeral in the immediate future.”

Connor thought of Ramirez, of Bouchet, of the handful of other Immortals he’d known and mourned. “Do any of our kind really have funerals?”

“I’ll assume that’s rhetorical,” Adams replied, and though Connor might have pursued it, the other man’s deft touch soon robbed him, for the duration, of philosophical intent.

* * *

Early on the fifth day, word of Duncan’s arrival came from the harbor. Connor, who had been riding out to Spithead each day to look for him, barely had time to bathe and dress before a servant was at his door, letting him know that a visitor awaited him in the hall. Connor hurried down, still buttoning his waistcoat.

He hadn’t fully believed it until—yes. Duncan was there, as vivid and familiar as ever, though they hadn’t laid eyes on one another in over thirty years. Too long. When he finally stood before Connor, travel-worn and too thin, Connor gripped his shoulders. “Duncan,” he said, chest tight. “Let me look at you." Amused, Duncan made no protest. When he’d looked his fill, Connor pulled his kinsman into his arms and hugged him hard. “What am I to do with you?”

“Glad to see you, too,” Duncan said, his voice a little rough. He returned the embrace with feeling. “Sorry I’m late.”

“At least you’re not at the bottom of the ocean,” Connor said, letting him go. “Or the wrong end of a guillotine. Could be worse.”

Duncan had the grace to look chagrined. “I must confess, I haven’t had the best of luck when it comes to boats.”

“Yet here you are, none the worse for wear. But how did you know I would be here?” At Duncan’s quizzical look, Connor said, “The letter. It was addressed to me.”

“Lucky guess,” Duncan admitted. At Connor’s look, he shrugged. “You are somewhat predictable, you must admit.”

Connor laughed. "Why, you stubborn, thick-headed—" Connor seized his coat sleeve and shook him.

Duncan raised his hands defensively, chuckling. “Guilty, by all accounts.”

Just then, over Duncan's shoulder, Connor saw Adams on the landing, watching them with an unreadable expression. At his look, the good doctor melted away into the shadows.

Duncan, pulling away and following his gaze with a frown, said, "Is there someone else here?"

But a squeal of delight predicated the arrival of Amanda, who ran down the stairs and threw herself into Duncan’s arms, kissing him soundly. Laughing, he accepted the embrace, returning it with enthusiasm. When their happy reunion had been thoroughly expressed, Duncan held out an arm for her, then one for Connor and, thus linked, the three of them headed upstairs to find Rebecca.

Less than an hour later, while Amanda—with Rebecca’s encouragement—regaled Duncan with tales of her exploits since they’d last seen one another, Connor heard the clatter of hooves outside. He moved to the window in time to see a bay horse being brought round; Adams mounted up, carrying only his medical bag. He looked up once, his eyes finding the window where Connor stood. The faintest hint of that sardonic smile curved his lips—and then he was gone, past the gate in a matter of moments.

"Something the matter?" Duncan asked, seeing his expression. He joined Connor at the window, looking down at the now-empty courtyard.

"Hm?” Connor gained possession of himself, and found a smile. “No. Just thought I saw someone I knew."

 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> While this story owes its genesis in part to "The Dread Pyrate Methos," I can in no way presume to follow in Taz's footsteps. It amuses me, however, to imagine that this takes place in the same timeline. (I also sincerely hope that this interpretation of rarepairs is something like what you had in mind, dear recipient!)


End file.
